On Blacken'd Wings
by jillyfae
Summary: What makes a blood mage? Is it ever truly a fall from grace, if you take every single step into the depths with your eyes wide open? Does it matter why you need such power, if you have to pay such a cost to wield it? (Theia Hawke, prequel to Blood Magic)
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__This piece was written for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, inspired by_ A Circle in the Fire_, a truly disturbingly perfect fanmix created by janiemcpants. (It is a prequel to_ Blood Magic._)_

_content warnings: blood, violence, murder, and some really terrible sexual power dynamics_

* * *

_The Old Gods will call to you,_  
_From their ancient prisons they will sing._  
_Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_  
_On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_  
_The first of My children, lost to night._

_-Silence 3:6, Dissonant Verse_

* * *

Hawke felt it when Ser Wesley Vallen died.

_When she killed him._

The press of the blade, the way the skin parted, the way the blood inside called to her, even as it sickened, even as it stilled, even as it cooled.

_No cure for pain but death._

She'd fought before, of course, but never killed, not like this, not a man on his back, face grey and pained, no danger, no fear driving her movements.

_It felt good._

So good she had to bow her head, swallow the shudder through her muscles, the burn, the ache, had to deny the need to curve her hips and let all her breath out in a sigh so none of them would see, none of them would wonder why her nostrils flared, why she gripped the dagger so tightly, why she paused so long above his body.

She hoped they'd think it grief, Bethany's body and the templar's Taint and the unknown consequences of a Witch's aid.

The templar's wife turned away, shoulders tight and face closed off, and Hawke was glad that she at least had not been watching too closely. She had fought bravely, did not deserve such loss, did not deserve the extra pain of Hawke's greed.

No one ever got what they deserved in her experience, either good or bad.

She drove the dagger into the ground 'til the hilt hit stone and dirt, standing up and wiping her hands off on her leggings. She turned toward the other Vallen, _Aveline, was it?_ and nodded down towards her husband's body. "Blade's tainted, but if there's anything else you want?"

Aveline went stiff, already pale skin somehow growing even paler as Hawke waited. She finally nodded, a jerk of head above tight shoulders, and as Hawke turned she saw her hand reach out, fingers almost brushing against the curve of a wrist hidden beneath his gauntlet.

Hawke moved far enough to kneel by Bethany's side, shooting one quick glare at Carver, who understood, and didn't even argue for once, turning Leandra until she was holding onto his arm, leaning on his shoulder, _not_ staring at her youngest's dead body anymore.

Bethany was the pretty one.

Well.

Not so true, now, but there was no way to do what needed to be done without looking at her. Her kerchief was ruined, torn and stained with things it was better not to contemplate, but lifting it revealed the locket she wore beneath it, and Hawke carefully moved her fingers along the chain until she found the clasp and could pull it off.

Leandra would want it to remember her by, eventually, once the first horror had passed. Especially as it had been a gift from Malcolm, after his very last trip to Denerim before he died.

She had to lean over the body to reach Bethany's far hand, trying not to breathe, not to smell Bethany's blood in the same way she'd felt Ser Vallen's, gorge rising thick and bitter in her throat. She swallowed, hard, even as she tugged off the ring Bethany had used to anchor her wrist-wrap. She settled back on her heels, eyeing Bethany's other hand, the bones so broken she wasn't sure there was a way to retrieve the second ring, short of cutting off a finger.

She was pretty sure she couldn't do that without throwing up, and Leandra would undoubtedly stop her before she got that far.

The rings were a set, Leandra's Grandparents' wedding rings, and she didn't want to break them up _now_, didn't want to leave just one behind. She shifted, caught the shadow of Carver's hair out of the corner of her eye. _But isn't that what we're doing anyways?_

Her head felt too heavy to hold up, _just a little longer_, and she let her attention switch, away from skin and bruises to the leather of Bethany's belt-pouch. She might have something they could use. Elfroot would be nice. Bethany always had liked a good herb garden, had always been interested in healing, both with and without her magic, as if to make up for how easily the fire flared between her fingers, how hard it had been for her to learn to control it.

There were folded parchment sleeves, the sort she used for herbs, _three of them, thank you Bethany_, and Hawke's fingers trailed past them and she stilled at the catch of a leather corner against her skin.

_It can't be._

She pulled out the sleeves, and trying not to tremble, _musn't let them see_, reached back in to take the book.

_It is._

Her lips parted just a little, her tongue pressed up behind her teeth, her breath one long slow exhale as she slid the book into her own pouch, along with the sleeves and the jewelry, and stood.

"Finished are we?" The Witch's voice was smooth, ever so slightly amused, and yet there was almost a hint of sympathy in her eyes belying the cruel curve of her smile. "Time is not on our side. Waste too much of it, and nothing can save you." She laughed as Leandra's face tightened, as Aveline's hands clenched around the edges of her husband's shield, as Carver swallowed a grunt to stop himself from speaking.

Her laugh slowly faded as she met Hawke's eyes, though she kept the smile, small and secret. "Not even me." She let her eyes blink, her voice drop, a thrum of _something_ deep and almost silent beneath the words. "Not even you."

Hawke just nodded, and let them all be rescued by a myth of fire and death.

They had to survive. Worrying about how seemed petty at best, and stupid at worst.

Stupid wouldn't survive a Blight. Stupid wouldn't survive in Kirkwall.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke staked out her own corner of deck on their trip, and dedicated herself to her book. She'd given the locket to Mother, the ring to Carver, but kept this one last thing all to herself.

Bethany's book.

Father's journal.

He'd been worried, when he took ill, the things he'd never taught them, the secrets he'd kept heavy in his eyes. He'd given the book to Bethany, near the end, told her to destroy it, told her it was too dangerous to let slip away, made her promise to throw it in the fire.

Only she didn't.

Hawke hadn't thought she'd had it in her, not to defy Malcolm, not like that, not when she'd sworn-

Only she hadn't.

It was only now, faced with the evidence of their father's words, dark and angular and painfully familiar against the grain of the paper, that Hawke realized Bethany hadn't ever actually promised any such thing, had whispered soothing nothings and let Malcolm think she'd do as he asked.

Clever. Oh so tricky, Bethany, I didn't know you had it in you.

She paused on the first page, placed her palm flat against the paper, covering the words.

Father had wanted it destroyed.

Bethany had successfully hidden it from all of them.

Hidden it from me.

Perhaps they had cause.

Perhaps she shouldn't ...

Worrying about shouldn't hadn't kept Malcolm alive, or Bethany, or even that poor Tainted templar bastard.

She moved her hand, and bent her head to read.

* * *

Hawke hated Gamlen at first sight. The only eyes she'd ever seen as pale as her own, a washed out brown instead of her own blue, weak with drink and greed. If the Templars ever came for her, she knew it would be because of him.

But then she'd kill him.

Unless or until that happened, she had to wait. Had to trust him, at least a little. She avoided him as much as possible after that first semi-sincere thank you for getting Leandra into the City, for introducing her to her new employer.

Working for the Red Iron had been an easy choice.

Meeran wanted a killer all his own, someone to frighten both allies and rivals alike, and he smiled when he saw her, pride and ownership, like a qunari holding the end of a leash.

Sometimes he'd tug on that leash, bend her over the desk in his office, or push her down to her knees. She knew he enjoyed the power; he thought she was afraid to say no.

She didn't want to say no.

She rode his pleasure as well as her own, and he was the one whose breath grew rough and ragged, whose hips lost their rhythm near the end, sharp uneven thrusts, whose hands sometimes trembled before his fingers tangled in her hair or dug into her skin.

He was the one who lost control.

She was the one who turned away, sated by blood and sex, who smiled as Carver scowled at her and walked her home.

He always waited, just in case Meeran went too far and they had to kill him. They'd probably have to kill them all, after that, but she was mostly sure they'd win. None of them had ever really seen what the Hawkes could do, when pushed, Carver's rage and her blood-lust let free.

None of the Iron had seem them in the Blight, had seen them after Bethany.

They let Meeran think them leashed, because he was at least honest in his ruthlessness, and he'd given them precisely what he'd promised: refuge and violence and a paycheck, for one full year.

Besides, he let her kill, let her take every clue she'd deciphered from her father's journal and reach for the reality, let her magic wash over blood and death and pain and sorrow, let her learn.

The journal was frustratingly opaque, few of the answers she needed, only hinting at demons, and blood, and power.

Power enough to keep the Templars from his trail.

Worries about her, on the earliest pages, about how difficult it had been when she was a baby, keeping her quiet and under control no matter where they were, no matter when they had to flee, who they had to associate with, what they had to do.

She remembered darkness, thick in her throat, her lungs burning, her arms and legs so heavy it was hard to move, so she didn't, didn't shift, didn't cry, didn't speak, barely even breathed. She'd thought it just a nightmare, but now, she wondered, what precisely was he apologizing for, in secret, in silence, that he'd never dared confess to her face.

He never spelled it out, even on pages he'd thought private, but she could smell the fear, caught in ink and paper. Fear of what they'd made of her. Fear of what she would become.

It turned sharp and dark when her magic came, and each beat of her heart seemed too sharp as she read, violence against her soul, as he carefully didn't say he thought they'd birthed a monster.

Would he fear her even more now? Turn away from all she was trying to do, all she was trying to be?

But she had to survive, didn't she, had to protect Leandra and Carver? No matter how much Carver insisted he could take care of himself. She couldn't just stop, could she?

She'd failed with Bethany, she knew, she dreamed of it, night after night, whispers of blame to haunt her sleep, but that was why she was trying so hard to learn, she needed more, needed to know enough to keep them safe at last.

"She wouldn't approve, you know."

Hawke lifted her head from The Book, as she'd started to consider it, blinking at Carver as he settled beside her, jaw tight.

She knew precisely who and what he meant.

Bethany.

"If I'd had this sooner, if I'd risked it," neither ever said blood magic out loud, especially not where Leandra might overhear, but they both knew what she meant, "she might not have died."

"She'd have despised the cost."

"She could despise me all she liked, as long as she was here to do it."

He grunted.

"Wouldn't you rather she was alive to hate you?"

His eyes closed, all his warmth hiding behind his lids as she felt his shoulder shudder against hers.

"I'd rather you'd died, really, rather than have this conversation." His voice was tired more than angry, and she knew precisely what he was the best of us. She never had to bend so far. Always knew what was right to do.

"Same here."

He grunted again, and Hawke blinked, hard enough to break the tears before they fell, letting them catch in her lashes instead. I should have kept her safe.

I won't fail again.

Never again.

* * *

On nights she wasn't working, she'd climb out of Lowtown, find a roof or a wall or an empty market, lean back her head and count the stars 'til her worries faded, nothing but the dark and the gleaming points of lights, staring up at the moons, a pair of otherworldly eyes staring back at her, silent and wise and secretive. Sometimes she'd turn, trace the shape of the Gallows' shadow against the horizon, dream about the knowledge there, locked away, trapped in books and Tranquil minds, lost and isolated.

There was no way to get at any of it. No way to learn what she needed.

Until she finally made it to Sundermount to pay off her debt to the Witch, with her brother, his dog, Aveline, and the newly acquired and suspiciously helpful dwarf all trailing along behind, and met the Dalish blood-mage.

Hawke wanted her.

In every way it was possible to want, the thoughts in her head and the depths in her eyes and the feel of her skin, her body naked, writhing, calling Hawke's name in surrender.

Merrill refused.

"Teach me," Hawke asked again, back in Kirkwall. "Haven't you ever wanted someone to talk to, someone who can feel the power the way you can, someone who knows?"

"You want it too much." Merrill lifted her chin, defiant even alone in a ramshackle ruin of a house in the Alienage, nothing left to her but her solitude, her name and her mirror all that kept her company.

And Hawke, of course, always visiting, always watching, always wanting.

"And you don't?" Hawke asked when they were in the room, the eluvian's blank surface witnessing their every word, absorbing it all, reflecting nothing. "Want to know, more than anything else?"

Merrill shook her head. "I can feel your desire in the air. So could even the weakest of Spirits. It's too dangerous."

"Too dangerous?" Hawke rolled her eyes. "More than fighting qunari and brigands and corpses and shades and horrors?"

Merrill's voice dropped, but stayed steady, the voice a Priest or Healer used to deliver bad news. "You don't have the will to resist."

Hawke turned on her toes, fast and determined, whirled right towards Merrill, her steps firm, 'til the elf backed up despite the glare in her eyes, her back hitting the wall behind her. Hawke leaned in close, breath against her cheek, hands pressed to the wood on either side of Merrill's shoulders, fencing her in but refusing to touch. "You think I lack will? Try me, maleficar, and see how far I can go."

She would have stepped back, waited, proved her patience, but she saw Merrill's chest lift, the slightest flutter of lashes as her eyes moved, almost too quick to see the glance down Hawke's body, and she couldn't make herself pull back, didn't want to, didn't want to lose the scent of her skin and the enticing line of her neck, pale and strong and perilously close.

She licked, instead, slow and wet and hot, from the bottom of Merrill's ear all the way to the top, a final bite, teeth around the very tip, listening to Merrill's breath catch, feeling her chin lift, closer, not further away, letting her breath sigh against Merrill's cheek as she slowly pulled away.

She could see the breath leave Merrill's body, her shoulders shifting, a parting of her lips, an instant while her head fell back against the wall before her eyes opened and she shoved Hawke away.

Hawke smiled as she let herself be pushed.

That pause had told her everything she needed.

"Sex won't convince me of anything, except that you think it's a game, that you will do just what you want because you want it." Merrill managed to inject scorn in every word. "With Spirits you have to know how to resist."

"If you think me so weak, how about a test?" Merrill's nostrils flared at the purr of Hawke's voice, and oh, it was difficult not to laugh. I've got her now.

"What sort of test?"

Hawke spread her hands, let her gaze wander down one side of Merrill's body and up the other before answering. "Your will against mine, of course. Whoever concedes first, loses." She leaned in close again, felt her nipples tighten beneath her blouse as Merrill's gaze dropped, for just a breath, to watch the shift of her breasts as she moved. "I can guarantee you'll enjoy my victory, however."

"I should let you harass me until you grow bored?" Merrill's mouth twisted, and she shook her head. "Of course a shem would think that fair, would think she had the right, would think the poor young elf should submit to her whims."

"I think I know things you don't, and I know you know things I don't. I think we could help each other, and I think we ought to enjoy ourselves along the way, if at all possible." Hawke pursed her lips, an obscene kiss against the air, as Merrill wouldn't let her kiss her skin. Yet. "Set your own limits, then, to make it fair."

"Any limits?" Merrill's mouth eased, her shoulders shifted, her fingers graceful as they lifted with her question.

"Try me."

"If you want me so badly, prove it."

"How?" Oh, she liked this side of Merrill, even more than the surge of her power, even more than the little drips of knowledge she let fall, this will of steel, hidden so well beneath a light voice and sweet sparkling eyes.

"Commitment, of course." Merrill tilted her head, the movement sharp and sure. "If you need me so badly, don't settle for anyone else. No kissing, no," she paused, another shift of hands just barely avoiding a rather graphic gesture, "no … anything else either."

"Done."

Merrill's eyes widened, impossibly large, and the shift of her weight stopped mid-step, so suddenly she almost stumbled over her own feet.

"Any more?"

Merrill stared at her for a moment, considering, eyes slowly narrowing as she brought her thoughts back where she wanted them. "You have until the Expedition leaves, no longer."

Hawke took a deep breath at that. Not much time left ... "Alright."

Merrill blinked. She looked young again now, soft and startled and unsure, but her mouth firmed soon enough, and she nodded. "Agreed then."

* * *

Varric almost rescinded his invitation to have Hawke buy into the Expedition when he realized what she was up to, messing with his had to talk him out of it, insisting it was her decision to make, not his.

She kissed him on the cheek when he finally relented, and Hawke felt a quite irrational surge of jealousy at that. No one ever kissed her on the cheek.

No one was doing anything to her at the moment, which was even more frustrating than she'd thought it would be.

Isabela thought it was hysterical.

Isabela also offered to sleep with Merrill any time she wanted, to take the edge off, Kitten. You don't have to suffer just because Hawke is trying to provoke you.

Hawke showed Isabela her teeth in something that was decidedly not a smile, and made sure to take Merrill with her any time she went hunting a fight, in town or down the Coast, for coin or reputation.

She drowned all her desires in blood, in other people's pain, letting her magic scorch beneath her skin, following the twist of Merrill's power through stone and air, 'til their mana surged together, time and again, echoing together, the way it whispered back almost as good as the sex they weren't having, power and pain and pleasure, the hair on her arms standing on end, static flashing between their hands any time they touched.

And Hawke made sure they touched, a brush of a hip as they walked, a helping hand after a fight, sitting next to her at drinks, leaning too close when they talked. Merrill leaned in too, sometimes, before she remembered not to, and the pause before she turned away when Hawke's whispers brushed against her cheek got longer and longer as the days passed.

Hawke had no idea how Merrill really felt about it all, though she was encouraged by her increasing tendency to blush. For Hawke, it was a form of torture, exquisite in its execution, heat and need with no release, not even enough privacy at Gamlen's to take the edge off, as Isabela so smugly put it.

Not that she would have. That would be cheating. Besides, there was something to be said for being so aware of her own body all the time, each beat of her heart and shift of her breath and the endless pulse of blood beneath her skin.

When the rain came she climbed up on Gamlen's roof and leaned into the wind, let the water hit against her face, pour down her skin, until her clothes were plastered to her and she was shivering, hot skin, hot air, the cold shift of water and cloth, completely lost in the sensation.

"She deserves better."

Carver would insist on being in the way. He sounded like he was beneath her, probably sitting on the short wall above the trap-door, a wind and water break to cut down on leaks through cheap hinges.

She growled in the back of her throat, soft enough it almost hid beneath the sound of the water hitting and streaming down the roof beneath them.

Almost.

She could practically hear Carver roll his eyes at her. "And everyone calls me the selfish tit."

She waved a rude gesture in the direction of his voice, eyes still closed and face turned up into the rain.

"Why, sister. Tell me why." If no one else. We have no one else, not anymore.

Hawke's shoulders curved, fabric pulling her down, cold and heavy, her hair sticking to her forehead, her cheeks, water trailing down her neck beneath her shirt, dripping off her nose as she bowed her head. "I need what she knows."

"Do you? Or do you just want it?" She turned at that, his voice old and heavy and achingly like their father's. "Always more, that's you, never satisfied with what anyone else has." His mouth twisted at the end, the lift of his own bitterness banishing their father's ghost as quickly as it had appeared.

"And you're satisfied? With this?" She aimed a pointed glance out at the courtyard beyond Gamlen's door, waved at hand at the red leathers he only owned because Meeran had been 'kind enough' to grant them.

"I don't spend my time spitting at the Templars and laughing, trying to provoke them into taking me." He scowled. "Throwing away everything everyone has done for me, to keep me safe."

"I never asked for safe." That was Bethany. I refuse to be afraid.

"You ask for whatever you want, and make everyone give it to you."

She snorted. "No one ever gave either of us a damn thing." Except for Bethany. Again, again, still the center of their lives, even now she was dead.

"And yet you think Merrill should, should give you everything." He coughed, spit into the rain beside them, let the water share his anger. "Taking from someone who doesn't know how to tell you no."

"She's not Bethany."

Carver's eyes widened, and he shook his head, but his shoulders were too tight, both of them remembering too many arguments, Bethany always trying to be the voice of reason, almost always failing, trailing her siblings as they sought adventure, or knowledge, or power, the shadows that lurked around the edges of even Lothering's innocent facade.

"Merrill seems so young, doesn't she? Innocent and sweet?" Hawke stood straighter, braced against the wind, her voice dropping, slowing. "Just like our Bethany, too nice for her own good. Do you miss having someone hanging on your every word, clinging to your arm, reminding you how strong you are?"

Carver snarled, all twisted lips and the glint of teeth and one heavy breath, shoved himself up on his feet, stepped close enough to loom over her, precious giant baby brother. "You don't get to speak of Bethany like that."

"And you do?" She whispered, felt her lips curve in a smile as she looked up at him, his eyes so very angry, the drops of rain caught in his lashes shockingly bright as they reflected the dim grey light around them, his hair hanging thick and wet and heavy around his face. He was close enough it would take only the barest shift of her weight to kiss his cheek, to touch his hand or his shoulder, to offer comfort. We all lost her. "You failed to protect her just as much as I did."

His fingers wrapped together, his arm lifted, but at the last moment he turned and kicked the wall instead of punching her.

She was achingly disappointed, her body burning, power tingling at her fingertips. She wanted the hit. She wanted her skin to break and blood to flow, to taste copper in her throat and feel fire in the air.

She wanted to hit back.

She wanted bruises to mark the passage of their pain, the hole in the center of their family that just got deeper, and darker, and wider, and screamed in her dreams at night.

"She's. Not. Bethany." Hawke repeated, slow and low and sharp and vicious.

"Do you think I don't know that?" His shoulders curved, further away from her, trying not to be so tall, so visible, so broad and strong and inescapable.

He's hiding.

What is he …

"Oh," she sighed, stepped back, weight light on the balls of her feet as she laughed into the rain, high and heartless and louder than the wind. "Are you jealous, brother mine?"

"What?" He turned, but it was too slow, too heavy, too pained.

"You are," she breathed out, light and soft, her voice swaying back and forth, almost singing. "She doesn't want what you have, what you can offer, doesn't need those broad shoulders to carry anything for her. Nothing at all to her, that's you."

She could see him shrink before her, tight and shamed and hurting, and oh, it hurt her too, twisting and catching in her chest, the claws of it digging in deep, and she couldn't seem to stop, such wonderful pain.

"She doesn't want you either," he mumbled, scowling down at his boots, at the roof, following the stream of water forming between his feet.

"Doesn't she?" Hawke spread her arms wide, the rain a benediction against her skin. "She thinks she shouldn't, she doesn't trust me, but she didn't say no, not really. Someday, she won't say no to anything."

It was his turn to growl, loud and rough and hopeless. "No one with a breath of sense would trust you."

She laughed again, though it hurt her throat, and turned back into the rain, listening to the splash of water against his boots as he turned, the creak of the hinges as he retreated back into the dank dry hole beneath the roof.

* * *

She almost made it.

The night before the Expedition was to leave, Merrill let her into her home, sighed and tilted her head closer when the back of Hawke's hand brushed against her face, tracing a line of a tattoo with her knuckle.

Hawke felt the brush of Merrill's breath against her mouth and counted her heartbeats, one, two, waiting long enough to be sure, so sure, before she kissed her. It was sweet, and slow, impossibly slow, no contact at all except the gentle press of her lips. There was the slightest gasp of air between them when her mouth opened, and Hawke hummed, pressed closer, her hands holding her cheeks, her tongue sliding between her lips.

It was glorious, relief and vindication and the heat of Merrill body, slim and sweet and strong. But it was over too soon, a whine in the back of Merrill's throat, a tease, a hope, and then she was stepping back, and back, her head turned away, her gaze focused anywhere except Hawke.

"Merrill," Hawke whispered, reaching out, not quite daring to step close again.

Merrill shook her head.

"But – "

"Just go, Hawke."

"And leave you here, alone, for moons?" Hawke stepped in, tilting her head until she could see Merrill's face, the line of tattoo along the pale curve of cheek. "What will you do when the Templars come calling?"

"The same thing I've done my entire life. Not be where they're looking." Merrill's eyes caught the light as her head lifted, a flash of green, bright and angry. "I'm not some child you need to protect."

"I don't think you a child, Merrill." Hawke pushed closer, too close, the heat of her body and the brush of her breasts and her voice a murmur between them. "But there is no clan to hide in here, no trees, no hidden paths, just stone and steel."

And there was that lift of Merrill's chin, that pride of hers, sharp and unforgiving. "I will not leave the eluvian in a land of "stone and steel" to be picked up by the first person who forgets that they don't mug me, the thief desperate enough to break down my door when I don't come back."

"And that's more important than keeping that lovely forehead of yours un-branded?"

Merrill's lips curved, her chin lifting up even higher, and she didn't bother to answer. Of course it is. Hawke knew that. "You can go now."

Hawke scoffed out one last breath, harsh and hard, and left.

* * *

Carver smiled when she stalked through the door, though he smoothed it away with one broad hand when he met her glare, recognized the edge of her temper about to hit him. She refrained, barely, in the interests of both of them being up to fighting trim at the dreadful pre-dawn 'mark when Varric had told them to meet him in the Merchant's Quarter.

She didn't quite manage to swallow the snarl of her breath, however, or the scowl across her brows, and at that he lost control, one low snicker at her expense, quickly turned into a completely unconvincing cough.

"Fuck off," she muttered, collapsing in the chair beside him.

"Can't, isn't that the problem?" He snorted softly beside her.

"Theia," Leandra's voice was soft, wounded, wounding, as if Hawke's language was the reason their lives had gone to shit. "Carver, please don't encourage her."

"Oh, right, I have so much influence on her behavior." His voice was as surly as ever, only the slightest curve of his shoulders acknowledging the hit of their mother's voice hurt worse than usual.

It was, to Hawke's knowledge, the first thing she'd said directly to him in days.

She'd barely even thanked either of them for finding her parents' Will before she disappeared into Hightown politics, ignoring them again.

Not that it would have helped much; the thick fog of blame was too well settled in the air between them to fade at a singular sign of interest. But it would have been a nice change, for Carver, to have his mother notice what he'd done for her.

"Don't worry, I'll be good. I'm going to sleep now, aren't I?" Hawke stood, nodding as politely as she could manage to Leandra. "You too, little brother, early morning and all that."

Carver snorted again, but his muscles eased a little at her nagging, familiar and annoying.

"And when will you be back?" Leandra's voice was smooth and flat and placid again, her eyes dropping back to her hands as if she wasn't really involved in her own conversation.

Hawke felt her eyebrows rise. "Well, it's a week to the entrance, and a week after that to Bartrand's mysterious site, plus however long it takes to excavate and fight through whatever's down there? A moon or two, at best?"

"Not you." Leandra smiled, as if they were being silly, children playing at a misunderstanding. "I meant Carver."

Hawke felt Carver stiffen, even at her new distance of a few steps away, felt her own muscles tense, had to swallow the first angry what are you about now, Leandra, in favor of shaking her head slightly, defying her brother's clenched jaw and fisted hands. "He's coming too."

"Of course he's not." Leandra looked up at last, eyes dark and opaque. "You can't seriously think to leave me here alone, to risk the both of you on this," she shook her head, one hand waving through the air as if to dismiss all their plans entirely. "You're the only one the Templars are after. You're the only one who needs to go."

It was difficult to breathe, her skin too hot and tight and sensitive to bear the pressure of her mother's eyes, to listen to Templars after you, need to go, we'll be so much better without you, won't we?

"Oh, you want me to stay now?" Carver shoved back from the table, the legs of his chair screeching across the floor as he stood at Hawke's side. "Never even meet my eyes, never want to speak to me, but Maker forbid I leave you alone."

Hawke swallowed again, her throat raw enough to catch on her every word as she forced them out. "I would like to survive the trip. I would like someone I trust at my back. He has just as much right to a share of the spoils, and he'd be in almost as much trouble with the Templars if they catch me, what with protecting me all these years."

Apparently, for you, protecting the mages in the family only extended to Bethany and Malcolm?

Even Hawke could not quite bear to speak that final thought aloud, so she retreated to her room, ignoring Leandra's attempt to speak again, grateful for the heavy sound of Carver's footsteps as he left their mother behind as well.

They'd leave the mabari, to keep her company. No reason to subject Cafall to the Deep Roads, and he enjoyed guarding his people. Leandra even appreciated that, had never blamed him for Malcolm and Bethany, never stopped scratching him behind the ears when he sat at her feet, never stopped smiling when she said his name. She'd treat him well while they were gone.

* * *

Hawke was going to flay the skin from his body, and laugh as he screamed. And for once Carver wasn't going to stop her, he was going to help, because Bartrand deserved every moment of it. The entire Expedition a trap, so he could steal his prize and run for it.

Never thought I'd consider Gamlen a quality relative, but at least he didn't feed us to the darkspawn.

Buried alive in the Deep, alone and lost, the weight of stone above them enough to wonder how the dwarves could stand it. Not quite alone, of course, her rag-tag team, in search of gold, of hope, of a new beginning.

And they got her, instead, red lyrium and betrayal and stone, always more stone.

At least there was a path to follow, a path to try.

When she met the Hunger Demon, she wished she'd managed to convince Merrill to come with them.

When she almost got buried under Rock Wraith, she found herself missing Aveline's shield more than she'd thought possible.

She thought they had made it, limping and weak and burdened by more gold than she'd ever imagined, but safe, almost there, until Carver fell to his knees, grey behind his eyes and black beneath his skin, and she didn't have enough hope left in her even to wish for Anders.

No.

Not you.

I will not stand for it.

Flemeth had sworn there was no cure, beyond the Wardens. Not for the Taint.

Hawke could sense it, now, as she knelt beside him, as she helped him sit back up again after his fall, as everyone else stepped away to give them space. She could feel the sickness in his blood, almost touch it, almost taste it, but it slipped away from her magic, sly and slick and poisonous, and Carver screamed as his blood burned inside him and she stopped, head against his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles of his arms as she swallowed down her rage.

"No," she whispered into his skin, the smell of him dark and sickly, his sweat dank and bitter. "No."

He laughed, soft and breathless and old, an echo of the Witch herself, here in the dark. "Even you can't kill the Taint."

She shuddered, nails digging in until Carver winced. "I can try."

"I'd rather you find a less painful way to kill me."

She turned her head, pressed close enough to lose her tears into his collar, rather than letting them drip against her skin. "I can't."

"You can." She felt his chin against her head, his arms heavy around her shoulders. "Only thing we're good at, isn't it?"

She shook her head.

"I can feel it, Theia."

She swallowed a sob. No one except Leandra ever called her Theia.

"It's hungry. It won't let me do it myself. I need you to – ."

She covered his mouth with her fingers, face still tucked up against his neck. She made herself breathe in the silence, made her body ease into the embrace of his arms, strong as an ox-man, my baby brother.

Finally, when the heat in her eyes had faded enough, just enough, she leaned back and met his eyes, dark and lost, and felt her breath catch again, despite how well she thought she'd stiffened her resolve. "Of course you do. Never could do the job properly yourself."

His mouth twitched as her hand fell to her side, caught between a laugh and a scowl. She felt him reach for her, his fingers hot against her hand, his grip still strong. For now.

Neither of them would thank her if he lived long enough for that to change.

"Lie down then, don't want you falling on me." He snorted, and it turned into a cough, his whole body a ragged curve of pain until his breath returned. He sighed, his fingers and arms easing as he lay back against the stone. She had to close her eyes, take just a moment to hold in the heat, to calm the tremble of rage making her hands shake. She had to be calm to do what needed to be done, had to be in control. He deserved that, at the very least.

He deserves so much more than this.

It hurt even more than Malcolm, even more than Bethany, that Carver of all of them should resign himself to death, it hurt in her chest and behind her eyes and all the way down to her bones, searing something vital, deep beneath her skin. Flaying's too good for Bartrand. It needs to hurt more.

"Thank you." When he finally spoke it was soft, so soft, a whisper and a prayer. "Don't let Mother blame you. I chose this risk."

She nodded, and curved her spine until she could press her forehead to his, take one last moment to rest, one last moment together, and placed her hand against his chest, directly above his heart, feeling it beat against her skin, against her magic, unsteady but still strong.

Too strong.

He would not die easy, not without her help.

"Goodbye, Carver." She watched his eyes close as she reached for her dagger, watched his face blur beneath her, and slid her blade between his ribs.

* * *

"Hawke, what are you," Merrill's voice stuttered as she looked up from her book, feet slow and pale as she stepped across warped wood to meet Hawke just inside her door. "When did you g-"

Hawke almost stumbled, the toe of her boot catching on a loose board, it was hard to focus, hard to see, so damned tired, Isabela and Fenris had practically had to carry her, after, she'd been raving, swearing at ghosts, cursing Bartrand and Blights and the Maker's absent Face, her mana burned out from scorching the very stones beneath Carver's body, burning him to ash, again and then again, to make sure no hint of Taint remained within him, before insisting on a forced march to get them back into sunlight.

No more deaths. No one else claimed by this Blighted stone.

"Creators," Merrill swore, catching her, nose wrinkling at the smell of blood and Taint and stone and lichen and sweat and who knew what else she'd picked up in the depths. "Why are you here, have you even seen your mother, gone home, you need a bath, and food, and clean water, an-"

Her rambling cut off with a squeak and a thud as Hawke pushed her away, watched her hit the floor, an elbow sliding against the wood, hard enough to scrape, hard enough to tease, a hint of blood against the air, whispering to her thoughts.

"Could you have saved him?"

"Could I have? Who? What happened to you?" Merrill staggered to her feet, eyes wide with shock, mouth tight with pain and anger, mana building beneath her skin, taut and impatient, but not set free, not yet, waiting, until the air went thin and hot with potential.

"Carver," Hawke heard her own voice break, high and weak and like nothing she'd ever said before, but she couldn't hold it firm, couldn't hold anything, nothing left, swallowing and shivering and shifting her weight so she'd stay on her feet. "Carver, and the Taint, I had to kill him." Bare and harsh, those words, filling the air, turning it cold and still and empty, Merrill tensing at the impact.

"You are the only person I've ever heard of who purged the Taint from something, anything. That Maker-forsaken mirror is Clean." She made herself breathe, made herself speak, heard herself plead. "Could you have saved him?"

"Oh, Hawke," Merrill sighed, the sharp edge of her magic fading as her eyes gleamed, sorrow growing, chasing away the anger and the pain, sympathy sweetening her voice. "No, what I did, the purging of the mirror, it wouldn't, there's no way with a person, not that he could've lived through."

"Are you sure?" Hawke's voice was loud again, too loud, as she leant forward, stalked forward, closer and closer still, the heat between their bodies sharp-edged with regret, too complex to be just simple lust or desire, not anymore. "Completely and utterly, that if I'd known how, if you'd come, if you'd let me learn, that we couldn't have used it, couldn't have helped him?"

Merrill shook her head, but there'd been a shadow in her eyes, the slightest shiver before she'd firmed her lips and Hawke knew, she knew, that Merrill couldn't promise her that, couldn't swear, couldn't know.

Never know for sure, if we could have saved him.

"I'm sorry, lethallan," Merrill whispered.

It was too little, too late, but Hawke took it anyways, took everything, closed that last distance between them, pressed her lips against Merrill's, hard and ruthless, her hand gripping her hair tight, holding her precisely in place until she was finished with her. She breathed in, clean skin and the dust of books and wood, breathed out against that skin as she shifted her mouth enough to whisper into Merrill's ear.

"Do you concede, at last?"

She was pressed close enough to hear the swallow down Merrill's throat, could feel her hair pull taut, tight enough to hurt, as she nodded.

"Good." Hawke kissed Merrill's cheek, one soft brush of lips, loosened her grip until she could shift her hand, trail a finger down the edge of her ear, could feel something that was almost a smile soften her face as Merrill shivered at her touch.

Someday she won't say no to anything.

Hawke stepped back, shoulders aching, her bones brittle enough to shatter against her own exhaustion. "I look forward to our lessons then." She bowed her head farewell, felt a faint echo of her old hot satisfaction at the flare of nostrils before Merrill nodded in return.

It warmed her thoughts, as she left, as she turned to face her mother, her blame, her grief, my failure. She would learn. Learn enough, and Bartrand would learn regret, long before she let him die. Learn enough, and no one would ever stand against her, ever again.

I will learn enough to make the whole world pay.


End file.
